


Lazarus to Judas

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Exploration of Cal's Effects on Bro's Psyche, Gen, Metaphors, Not Happy, Possession (Alluded To), abuse (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 18:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6917956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m sorry,” he says, and you nod; you stopped accepting the apologies a long time ago, and he seems to realize it. He says them anyways- you think he has to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazarus to Judas

**Author's Note:**

> im not dead even though i kind of feel like it

When you get home from school, Bro’s laying face down on the couch, hair a mess and shades missing. Cal is nowhere in sight. 

 

He gets like this sometimes. It’s weird, and you aren’t sure if you like it- he _changes_ , does a one-eighty flip off the turnpike and into uncanny valley territory, and when the door shuts behind you and he looks up, eyes wide, your stomach rolls. You’d suspect he’s sober during times like this, off whatever drug or alcohol he’s been polluting himself with, except you’d never once seen him eat or drink or smoke and short sleeves don’t hide track marks. You’d suspect, perhaps, that he’s drunk or high during times like this, but the same excuse stands. 

 

Instead, you liken it to Lazarus and his second coming, three days after death- Bro, returning from wherever he’s trapped in his head, except instead of three days it’s more like three years, and you think Lazarus would have creeped you out less. 

 

“Dave,” he says, voice hoarse, weak from disuse- he reminds you of a baby bird when he gets like this, one hand reaching out, peeping desperately for food that you don’t want to give him;  _ starve him, starve him, get rid of him while he’s weak and vulnerable and- _

 

“Dave,” he says again, and you drop your backpack to the floor and step forward, taking his hand in your own. His fingers tremble. You feel sick. 

 

“Hey, Bro,” you mutter, sliding to sit on the couch; he curls in close to you, body shaking; there’s no sign of Cal anywhere, thank god, or you wouldn’t be able to stand this horror show. When your hand curls around the base of his neck, you can feel the hammer of his pulse through his skin. 

 

It’s during times like these that you realize how fragile he is, how defenseless, how thin; he seems so pale, despite the perfect toasted-marshmallow brown the sun has burnt him to. It’s hard to imagine this wretched creature is the same monster that beats you into fertilizer every other day of the year; you feel like you could snap his throat right now, and it would hardly be an effort. 

 

He shifts, and you help him sit up. He smells like felt and steel and lingering sickness, an undercurrent of hospital stench that makes you want to shove him away, but instead your fingers curl in his shirt and you lean in to press your head against his chest, because you're fucking pathetic and you can't live without this.

 

You need him. 

 

Bro’s arms wrap around your frame, and he clutches you to his chest with all the strength of a cancer patient. You can feel the press of his ribs against your side, the beat-beat-beat of his heart, like the ticking of a clock, marking the passage of time till your Bro is no longer Lazarus-Bro, but Judas-Bro, coiling around you like a snake to squeeze away the last of your breath. 

 

“I’m so sorry.”

 

All he ever does is apologize and it makes you sick. It makes you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and demand him to stay, makes you want to sob into his chest and  _ beg _ him not to go away, not to get lost in his head till his stupid puppet goes missing again, till the right amount of time has passed, till the fucking stars have aligned in the proper position to see him rise to the surface once more. 

 

You don’t want sorries and regret, you want change. But Striders have never been good at that.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you nod; you stopped accepting the apologies a long time ago, and he seems to realize it. He says them anyways- you think he has to. 

 

Your hand rubs along the bump-bump-bump of his spine, ticking each bone off in time with his heartbeat, up and down and up and down. His breath rasps in his chest, hot against your throat; sometimes, in the dark of the night, you dream of things like this, but now is not the time. 

 

“I love you.”

 

You don’t know if he means it.

 

“I love you too, Bro.”

 

You don’t know if you mean it, either. But saying it makes him relax, and his death grip on you loosens to something that might have been comforting, if you didn’t hate the sickly heat of his skin against yours, if you didn’t hate the way his hands make you flinch, even now. 

 

“Dave… Mm’so sorry, kiddo. I am. I can’t- I can’t make this right, I know that. But I’m still sorry.”

 

Soon enough, he won’t be. He’ll be back to the same silent, commanding presence looming around your apartment, watching you move, breathe, sleep. He’ll be the same monster that drapes Cal over his shoulders and drags you up to the roof to fight for your life, the same monster that pushes your face into the gravel and breathes in your ear and never says a single word, who communicates through text and stares and precise motions of his head and god, you hate this. You hate him. You love him. You miss him. 

 

“I’m proud of you,” he says, voice cracking, his hands reaching up to shakily tilt your face towards him; you don’t know what he reads in your expression, but it just makes him look sadder. You feel like you’ve kicked a puppy. 

 

“I’m so, so proud. I know I don’t say it enough-” or ever “-but I really am. You’ve done so well... ”

 

You want to shove him away, but you need him. You need this so, so badly- you need to hear that he loves you, that he’s proud of you, that you’re doing a good job because somehow, it makes what’s to come easier to deal with. If you can imagine this- him saying these words, him holding you close, him saying “I’m proud of you Dave” in the dark times when he’s pinning you to the burning roof and your limbs are on fire and you can’t breathe, can hardly see, it makes it better. It makes it seem like he’s doing it for a reason other than to torment you.

 

You don’t know if it’s true. You don’t really care. Let yourself be deluded- ignorance is bliss.

 

He presses his face into the crook of your shoulder and holds you tight, cradles you to his chest, and god the affection is everything you’ve ever craved and you lean into the touch and press your face to his hair and inhale that hospital scent because this is as good as it’s going to get. 

 

Lazarus-Bro is the only thing you’ve got.

 

So when he tugs you down, you go with him without complaint or protest. When he curls around you, you lean into him, hiding your face in his chest so he can’t see how disgusted you are, how much pain you’re in. When he combs his fingers through your hair, you sigh for him, you relax, you close your eyes and pretend it’s Bro- not Lazarus-Bro, not Judas-Bro, just… Bro. 

 

The Bro you always wished you had. 

 

And you know, god, you know, that sometime soon, this Bro will get lost, and the other will return to the surface. You know this is going to end in pain- in hair pulling and teeth baring and getting thrown from the couch like a sack of potatoes. You know that you’re going to regret it, that you’re going to swear to yourself  _ not again _ , you’re going to promise yourself the next time you see him laying on the couch you’ll walk right by his outstretched arms and ignore his baby bird cries of your name, and lock yourself in your room till he’s gone. 

 

You know that will be a lie. 

 

Because you know you can’t live without this. You can’t live without the warmth of Bro’s arms holding you close, his voice in your ear, raspy and soft, whispering _ I’m proud of you _ over and over, his legs tangled with yours, the two of you intertwined so closely you can’t imagine being apart from him. 

 

You need him. You need this. 

 

And you know, that next time he holds out his arms for you, next time he chirps your name, you will go crawling back to him. 

 

But now… Now, he’s warm against you and his hair smells like salt and he says  _ I love you _ in a tone of voice that makes your heart flutter, makes you believe it, and you feel less and less sick with each moment you spend lying with him, against him. You  _ bask  _ in it, you roll around in his affection because you need to soak it up, store away as much of it as possible for when Judas-Bro returns. 

 

For now, he’s soft with you. Gentle. His hands cup the back of your head, hold you close, and you breathe him in and sigh and go limp against his chest, because for now, you are safe. 

 

It won’t last long, but you’ll take what you can get. It’s your only option.


End file.
